


Summer Ficlet Challenge

by imagymnasia



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Bina's Ficlet Challenge, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Hegelgard angst, Mindless Fluff, Tags Subject to Change, self-indulgent silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25238227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagymnasia/pseuds/imagymnasia
Summary: This is a collection of 58 drabbles based on Bina's post. (Clickhereif you'd like to follow along or join!) Most of them are writing warm-ups for other writings.Tags will change accordingly as I upload each one, but any relevant warnings will be posted at the start of each chapter.
Relationships: Hapi/Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc, My Unit | Byleth/Seteth, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	1. retribution (Byleth and Kronya)

Byleth’s boots kicked up loose stones as they slid across the stony plaza, coming to a halt in the center of the clearing. Kronya was no longer the only Slitherer present, and had Byleth had a heart it would have stopped dead in their chest: Solon, the many veins in his repulsive forehead throbbing with a life all their own, now stood among them. He had not moved, but regarded the professor with the same disdain he’d shown them at Remire. It was a sentiment Byleth returned.

This was a trap, surely, but hatred still burned in Byleth’s throat like dragonfire and they could not quell it now. It must have shown in their eyes, for when Kronya looked over her shoulder at them her fear doubled, tripled, so potent that Byleth could taste it.

It was sweet.

“Solon!” Kronya threw herself at the old man’s feet, clutching the hems of his robes. “Solon, please! Help me!”

Byleth growled and took a step forward, daring Solon to try something— anything— stupid. Anything to give them a reason to lash out, to bury their sword in his chest, as if his list of atrocities were not enough. But Solon only smiled, lifting Kronya to her feet with the gentleness of a doting grandparent.

“Yes, child,” he said, his hateful rasp of a voice at odds with his manner. “You cannot be killed here. You have one more purpose to fulfill.”

Kronya smiled, her relief palpable. “I-I am happy to serve,” she stammered, her words tripping over themselves in the rush to leave her mouth. “Get me out of this and I’ll do a-anything, I won’t let you down, I will—”

Kronya gasped and jerked as the air left her lungs in a rush; Byleth gasped as if they, too, had been punched in the sternum, for Solon’s hand was buried deep in her chest. With surprising strength, the old man lifted her into the air with that hand. Deep purple shadow erupted from wound, writhing like living things, swirling around the Slitherers and pulsing with malicious intent. 

Byleth took a step back, sword now a shield against this new trickery. A chill like a mountain wind swept past them and they shivered; whatever that darkness was doing to Kronya, it was sucking the very heat from the air, a drafty window letting out all the heat in the world and replacing it with the winter chill outside. It tugged at the air in their own lungs, but another step back broke its weak grip and freed them from its influence.

Kronya screamed. The sound was not as satisfying as Byleth had thought it would be, and they watched with mounting anger as she twitched in Solon’s grip and clutched at his arm, begging him to stop. 

“Wh-what are you d-doing to me?” she shrieked. The darkness pulsed again, and her back arched into an impossible curve as she screamed again. “S-Solon, please! St-Stop this! _Please!_ ”

But the magic was relentless, Solon’s grip too strong, and as he continued to wrench her life from her body Kronya could do nothing more than shriek. And then, just like that, it was over. Solon let go, and Kronya’s trembling body fell to the ground. She twitched, her limbs cocked at strange angles, head rolling back in a way it should not have been able to. 

Her eyes fell on Byleth.

Something shifted behind that gaze, something that did not quite overshadow her fear but that brought them new light.

"H-help me,” she gasped, reaching a crooked arm toward them. “Please.”

That light was hope, Byleth realized, and the very thought that this woman could _dare_ ask Byleth for their help, after everything she had done, after everything she had taken from them, made their stomach roil. This was not the end they had wished for her, but it was still an end.

So Byleth took that hope and crushed it without hesitation, without mercy.

“ _No._ ”

Kronya’s eyes went wide; then the life went out of her eyes altogether. Her face was still contorted in that tearful terror as her body fell to ash, then blew away in the wind.


	2. fireflies (Yuri/Hapi)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri and Hapi go stargazing, of a sort.

“This wasn’t what I had in mind when you said you’d take me star-gazing.” Hapi, lying with her head nestled in the crease of Yuri’s shoulder, huffed. It wasn’t a sigh; she almost never did that anymore. But it also wasn’t a laugh. Hapi rarely laughed.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t amused.

“It’s cloudy, Yuribird,” she told him, gesturing with one long, elegant arm at the grey-blue blackness above. “C’mon, I thought you were the smart one.”

“I am,” he assured her, a smile pulling the corners of his mouth. Pulling them toward her. “But, after all these years, I’m still never sure what to expect from you-- or your magical prowess. Maybe you’d devised some way to call upon the very winds of Fódlan to clear them all away ”

She snorted at that, rolling her eyes. Still, she snuggled closer, so she couldn’t have been  _ too  _ angry.

“They’re just as good as stars, though, aren’t they?” she asked. Her tone was casual, so typical of Hapi that he almost missed it: uncertainty. Another rare emotion of hers. 

Even as children, Hapi had always appeared so sure of herself, so unaffected by the things going on around her. How she pretended not to care about the way they treated her, avoided her, spoke ill of her behind her back and (sometimes) even to her face. But Yuri knew now how she had struggled, how he had been so caught up in his own ambitions that he’d had little time to support her back then. 

She’d let him in, anyway, and he was… working on doing the same. The war seemed so far away, now, though it had only been three years, and they had both done a lot of growing. Separate. Together. The latter was the best sort of growing, he would readily admit.

In any case, it was moments like these, moments when Hapi let her guard down just a little and let him see one more piece of her that he hadn’t before, that Yuri felt like the luckiest man in the world. And he had vowed (to himself, of course; he wasn’t Constance, constantly exclaiming her intentions to the world) to never let those moments go to waste.

“Yes,” he answered, solemn and sincere, and he kissed the top of her head and pulled her closer.

The field below them still danced with lights-- thousands upon thousands of tiny twinkling orbs, floating leisurely above the windswept grass. Hapi’s stars, it turned out, were fireflies. It was very much like stargazing, the way they danced in the dark void of the field, gently changing from one constellation to the next. And it was  _ beautiful _ . But unlike the stars, which made him feel small in a vast world of wonders, the fireflies made him feel closer to the earth in a way he never had before. Like  _ he  _ was part of something beautiful.

“You know, I was never one to muck about in nature. Not that I’m against it. I never really had the opportunity. And I certainly wouldn’t say the outdoors have ever been  _ kind  _ to me.” Flashes of memory, then: the cramped alleys of Enbarr, the Varley gardens, the training grounds in Rowe. “But I rather enjoy it, when I make the time.”

Yuri turned toward her, staring down at the pink pillow of her hair. Her circlet sparkled in the darkness as it caught the dim light, casting its own starlight into the night.

Hapi, his very own star.

“You make me want to,” he said softly.

She looked up at him, padparadscha eyes crinkling in pleasure as they met his own. And Hapi laughed.


	3. match (Sylvain/Mercedes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercedes kabedons Sylvain. Just because she can.

Mercedes scanned the monastery grounds, looking for that tell-tale glint of red in the afternoon light. The gatekeeper had told her that her friend would be here, but she had yet to spot him. And Sylvain Jose Gautier-- tall, freckled, magnetic and handsome-- was kind of hard to miss.

Most of the time, Sylvain made himself available when it was the least convenient; he was always turning up when she was not expecting it, and while she dearly loved his company Sylvain also had a tendency to make a nuisance of himself. Today, though, was different. Today, she needed him.

See, there was a thing Sylvain loved to do. Mercedes had seen it in action many times, especially in their days as students of the Officers Academy, and had even been on the receiving end on more than one occasion. It flustered most people; the voice dropped low and sultry, the closeness of another person, the feeling of being caged in and surrounded without escape. If she was honest, sometimes it flustered her, too, although she tried not to show it.

It was silly, she knew, but Mercedes wanted to try it for herself. Annette, the only person in whom she had confided her plans, had laughed and encouraged her with her usual enthusiasm, but Mercedes remained skeptical. She didn’t have the height, for one. She also wasn’t the…  _ sexiest  _ of the former Lions, to put it frankly. But she was going to give it a shot, just this once.

Just to see what it felt like.

"Oh, Sylvain!”

Excellent. He was leaning against the doorframe by the training grounds. The doors were flung wide, no doubt to encourage air movement and provide some relief from the warm spring day. Even from here, Mercedes could hear the percussive beats of training weapons striking against each other, hear Felix and his opponent grunting with exertion (and occasionally pain). But Mercie didn’t care about the fighters; she set her eyes on Sylvain and marched toward him with a determined stride. 

Sylvain must have heard her coming, for he turned to face her just before she reached him. “Oh, Mercedes! Don’t you look lovely this--”

His eyes went wide, as she pressed him against the frame, one hand against the wood to block him in while the other rested on her hip. The new, jaunty angle felt strange but powerful, in a way. She sort of liked it.

“Um,” said Sylvain. He stared at her, leaning away as she leaned closer. A blush was already creeping up his neck and along the wings of his ears; it swept across his cheeks and into his hair like a sunset. Goddess above, it was so hard to keep a straight face when he looked so deliciously embarrassed.

She fluttered her lashes, made sure to smile. “ _ Hey _ .”

"H-hi?” She was sure Sylvain hadn’t meant it as a question.

Mercedes just smiled. “How’d you like to have dinner with me this evening?” she asked. “My treat.” She threw her voice as low as she could without sounding mannish; she wasn’t sure if it was  _ sultry _ , exactly, as she’d never really done it before, but the way Sylvain’s eyes went dark told her she’d probably succeeded. 

When he still hadn’t answered her a full minute later, Mercedes leaned in until they stood breasts to breastplate. Sylvain looked like he might faint-- or like he was trying to melt into the frame behind him.

Suddenly daring, Mercie ran her finger along his jaw, tracing the strong line of it until she reached his chin; this she tilted downward, gently, until he truly met her eyes. Beneath her touch, he shivered.

”Still with me, Sylvain?”

He stammered wordlessly for a moment before answering. His smile was lop-sided, unsure; it was such a novel look for him that Mercedes wanted to kiss it right off his face. 

“I-- uh-- s-sure, dinner would be--”

“Perfect.” Mercedes smiled, not the flash of a grin but a quirk of her lips, subtle and smug, just like she’d practiced. “Sunset, my room. Don’t keep me waiting.” 

With that she turned on her heel and the spell was broken. Sylvain leaned heavily on the doorframe behind him, and Mercedes began to walk away, hiding her self-satisfied grin behind her hand.

The sound of combat had long-since ceased, and Mercedes could hear the shuffle of feet and then voices behind her. And not just voices: laughter.

She chanced a glance over her shoulder and saw Ingrid and Ashe leaning on one another and laughing so hard she wondered if they could breathe. They had, apparently, been watching from the railing above, having just come from the sauna. Felix and his opponent (who she now knew was the Professor) had also gathered to watch the goings-on; no doubt Felix was upset about their training being interrupted, but he seemed more perplexed than anything as his head swivelled between her and his flustered friend.

Sylvain slid down the door until he was slumped on the ground with his head in his hands, muttering ‘ _ what just happened’ _ under his breath. He chanced a glance at her retreating form and Mercie waved-- just a waggle of her fingers, and Sylvain broke into nervous laughter and buried his face in his hands again.

“Damn,” grumbled Felix, appreciative and accusing all at once. Beside him, Byleth nodded.

“I never thought I’d say this,” he said, “but I think Sylvain has met his match.”

_ Maybe he has, _ thought Mercedes, and a thrill ran through her at the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS THE MOST SELF-INDULGENT THING, IT LITERALLY CAME TO ME IN THE SHOWER ONE DAY AND I KNEW I HAD TO WRITE IT, DO NOT JUDGE LEST YE ALSO BE JUDGED.
> 
> Anyway ship Sylvcedes.


	4. largo (Hubert/Edelgard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AM!route Edelbert angst, featuring Hegelgard. Slight alterations to canon but otherwise follows the narrative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: character death, angst, canon-typical violence

Hubert’s pulse is slow, languid, a whisper in his veins compared to the roaring flood it had been only moments ago. He lies at the feet of the dais where the sword of that Fraldarius whelp had cut him down, breaths coming quick, shallow, desperate.

He is not afraid of death. When he had first begun to tread this path, he had known there were only two possible outcomes: bloody, glorious victory or the icy kiss of death. He has made peace with it, has committed with his whole heart; and so he is not frightened, only angry at the thing left undone. 

It was enough: his cunning, his strength, the hands he has forever bloodied. He has accepted those things and he will not regret them even now, but to suffer such an utter and miserable defeat, when they had worked so hard… 

He does not believe in fate, or a goddess, but it feels too much like some cosmic force has reached out a hand to strike him down-- not Felix. Not the forces of Faerghus, but Sothis herself, her spirit split a thousandfold in a wave of bodies clad in blue and black and silver. This is but the price he must pay for defying the order of the world, and in the grand scheme of the universe his death will be inconsequential.

A cry of anguish reaches him, and Hubert’s blood ceases its labored march through his body. 

He knows that voice, has known it for what feels like a hundred lifetimes. It has been a long time indeed since he has heard it sound so pained, so terrified, so raw. A fresh wave of pain sweeps over him, somehow worse than the bloody tear leaking his lifeblood onto the stone. 

With an effort, Hubert turns his gaze up the steps, toward his one reason for living. His emperor, his one love, his Edelgard writhes upon dais, her body twisting into impossible shapes as she screams her throat raw. For a moment, he wonders if this is Faerghus’ doing, some sick magic deployed by one of the Mad King’s sorcerers, and rage fills him with enough strength to roll onto his stomach.

But he is wrong. 

He has been wrong so many times today.

This is not Faerghus, but  _ them-- _ those beastly Slitherers and their accursed experiments. This is the power that Edelgard’s family died for, her  _ true _ , monstrous power, and with horror rising in his chest Hubert reaches out a hand. 

As if he could stop this with a simple gesture. He has, he realizes in that moment, watching Edelgard give up her last vestiges of humanity and becoming the thing she hates the most, always been powerless. They were always going to lose; some part of him had always known.

What he had not known, could not have known,  _ what he knows now, _ is the pain of losing  _ her. _

_Lady Edelgard…_ _I have failed you utterly._ Hubert collapses softly on the stone, lips too weak to form the words, hands too heavy to reach for her. But he has strength enough for tears, and as Edelgard shrieks Hubert mourns her passing with his final breaths. _Forgive… me..._

The King of Faerghus steps over his body without a downward glance. When the shadow of his cape passes, it is stained with blood and tears.


	5. scale (Seteth/f!Byleth)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seteth has something to give Byleth. Something... important.

“I have something for you.”

Seteth’s voice startled Byleth from her paperwork. She hadn’t even heard him come in, although she  _ had _ left the door open. Still, Seteth usually announced himself when he entered her presence, a gentle knock on the door or clearing his throat as he watched her from the doorway. The fact that she hadn’t heard him approach was puzzling.

More than that, however, was the strange look on his face. He fidgeted, just slightly, as he stood before her desk, shifting his weight from one to the other like a schoolboy about to be scolded. Truly, for a moment she nearly asked him what he’d done; but instead Byleth set down her quill and gave him her full attention.

“Seteth,” she said, her smile warm, “what a pleasant surprise. I didn’t think I would see you til this afternoon.”

Seteth cleared his throat, his eyes darting away for just a moment before returning. “Yes, well… This couldn’t wait.”

“Well, what is it?” she prompted. For all his apparent urgency, Seteth made no move to speak; nor did he make any move at all, choosing to stand there, fidgeting, his eyes shifting from her to his hands. That  _ worried  _ Byleth, and she pushed away from her desk and met him on the other side.

She took his hands in hers and found them shaking. “Seteth,” she said, peering up into his face and searching it for the answers he was unwilling to give. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?” Byleth’s heart sake. “Is it Flayn?”

“No,” and Seteth laughed at that, the sound airy, nervous. “No, Flayn is perfectly well.”

“But you’re not.” Byleth traced her thumbs over the backs of his hands, soothing. Seteth sighed.

“No. I mean, yes, I am, I just…” He cleared his throat again, and this time he met her eyes. “Forgive me. It has just been some time since… Time has not made this easier.”

“Made what easier?”

“I… have something to give you,” he said again, and this time he turned his palms upward and opened his fist. Inside it was a single scale, the size of a silver half-mark and shining in the bright, late morning sunlight. The scale was the color of seafoam and sparkled likewise, the surface smooth and iridescent and domed ever so slightly.

Byleth stared, transfixed, not daring to touch although she very much wanted to. “Is…. is this…?”

“It is mine,” and Seteth nodded, “from when I was capable of such things.”

She could feel it, now, and when he offered it to her again she lifted it from his palm as if it were made of eggshell. But it was not so fragile as that; it thrummed with power still, a reflection of the Goddess and the Children she had brought into this world, and it was not unlike the power that now dwelled within her own body. But it felt like him, ancient and wise and so, so strong, beating like a tiny heart and echoing across the sands of time.

There was significance to this, Byleth knew, one that she did not fully understand; she held the scale with reverence, cupped in her hands like something precious. 

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, turning her eyes upward. Like him, like every part of him, inside and out. “Thank you.”

Seteth hummed, not displeased but not approving either, and began to fidget again.

“I kept a few from that time, although at the time I did not understand why,” he explained, avoiding the point, as he often did, until he was ready to arrive there. “But then I met you. And, against all odds, against all  _ reason _ I found myself doing something I never thought I would again experience, even in my long lifetime. I fell in love.”

“When our people walked upon this earth, openly, it was customary to share part of oneself with the person you wished to share your life with. Literally part of oneself, I mean-- scale, tooth, horn and claw. My own wife presented me with one of her fangs the night she asked me to become her mate. Even Flayn, despite my… discouragement, keeps a lock of her hair in case such an occasion should arise. I--” He stopped and shook his head, embarrassed. “Forgive me, I have strayed off point.”

Seteth took her hands in his and closed them over her new treasure. They were shaking again, and his smile was shy. “Do you… do you understand what I am trying to say?”

Byleth stepped toward him, her blood pounding in her ears as if she had run the length of the courtyard and back, pressing their joined hands to her chest and leaning into him. “Seteth,” she said softly, “are you asking me to marry you?”

Seteth brought her hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to each one before meeting her eyes. “Stay with me, Byleth,” he whispered. “I want you by my side, now and always. Will you have me?”

Byleth smiled, rocking onto her toes to lay a gentle, chaste kiss against his mouth. “I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
